But I am neck-deep in cardboard boxes.
Two summers ago, Kyle and I went water skiing and swimming on his parents’ lake. Kyle, who’s built like either a bulldog or a fire hydrant, (depending on which image you find sexier,) decided it would be funny to try on the wetsuit that he’d worn when he was 11. And after a lot of tugging, sucking, and wheezing, he got it on. Technically. The zipper was straining, the suit was squeezing the air out of him, and I’m pretty sure his body was one big chafe. But he got it on.
That’s exactly what unpacking out apartment has been like. Our apartment in Atlanta was a two bedroom, two bathroom apartment, with two spacious walk-in closets and an outdoor storage space. Our new apartment is a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment, with a single, tiny closet in the bedroom. Every single item in every single box has to be examined, evaluated to be kept or be gotten rid of, and a specific place has to be found for it. Every inch of the apartment is potential storage space, and nothing can be wasted. We’re rearranging things on top of other things, moving things from one room to another, cramming, squeezing, and prying.
It’s like trying to squeeze a 22 year-old man into an 11 year-olds wetsuit.